Here's part four, guys! We really hope you enjoy it! Feel free to comment bellow with your thoughts. This section is a pretty significant scene.
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It was a full twenty-four point seven hours before Imogen saw him again after that. By that time, boredom had reduced her to wandering around his apartment and talking to his cat.
She'd taken several trips to the fridge, each time discouraged by the selection.
Finally, she settled on a wrinkly apple and checked the dates on the rest of the refrigerator content, tossing the ones that had expired. She was sitting at the kitchen table when he got back. When he did, Ryne looked exhausted. He was carrying a heavy bag over each shoulder, which he laid carefully on the kitchen table. Horace trotted in, meowing and running back and forth between his feet.
"What's in the bag?" she reached for Horace but the cat ignored her.
"This one's equipment," he patted it. "That one is decent food to take. It's amazing what all goes bad in a few weeks, isn't it?" He smiled wearily.
"I'm sure." She peered at the food bag, stomach growling.
He opened it and then flopped down in a chair. "Help yourself."
"Did you poison it?"
She rose from the chair and rifled through the bag. It was mostly boxed and canned items. Wisely, things that would last longer. Some fruit, mostly dried.
He grunted softly and smiled sleepily. "If it's poisoned, we all die." She huffed and pulled out a bag of Lays potato chips as he asked, "Did Falor disappear?"
"Haven't seen him," she opened the bag of chips and sat back down.
"I knew you'd stay."
"The door locks from the outside and there are bars on the windows. Of course I stayed."
“Say that they weren't. I still think you would've stayedd,” Ryne answered, eyes twinkling sleepily.
“What is this a game?” Imogen rolled her eyes.
"I'm very serious about my work, Imogen," Ryne told her, growing grave. "Its not a game. I put my life in danger every day I go out, trying to protect innocent people like you."
"You kidnapped me and scared me half to death in my sleep. That doesn't sound like an upstanding citizen to me.”
"I shouldn't have scared you," he allowed.
"No you shouldn't have," her tight lips relaxed a bit.
"And I apologize for that."
Imogen sighed but didn't say anything. He fell silent as well. When she looked at him, Imogen realized that he was fast asleep, head tipped at an odd angle. She studied him for a moment, then reluctantly went to the couch and got him a blanket. She draped it over his shoulders and sat back down to watch him.
Looking down at him, she could see his badge and cell phone in his coat pocket. She rested her chin on the table, feeling her own eyelids droop but wanting to stay awake. Ryne never stirred. In his sleep, alone with her, he was vulnerable. She could've called the cops, killed him, whatever she'd wanted.
He think's he's doing the right thing. How can this be the right thing? Even if it is called for by the law? Imogen rubbed her forehead, frowned, then lay her forehead on the table. How can the law that set up the justice system be against true justice?
She squeezed her eyes shut as Horace came and fell asleep between them on the table. His tail swished back and forth across her feet as he licked Ryne's pant leg.
Sometime later, Imogen woke up to find Ryne gone from the table. She looked around.The door to the picture room was open and she could hear noise inside. She edged towards it, walking softly as she approached the door. Ryne was standing inside. He was looking at the pictures and notes on the wall near her boss's large photograph. He had his arms crossed over his chest.
"Are you really going to kill him?" she said softly.
Ryne stopped rocking on his feet for a moment and lowered one arm to his side as he answered, "I have to protect innocent people just like you do, Imogen."
"Why not arrest him and put him behind bars instead?" She walked up behind him.
"Because people like that get out and just keep doing the same thing," he answered. "Either way, it's not up to me. I'm not the authority. I don't decide who dies and who lives. I'm just the gunman they call when it's time for action to be taken."
"So you're the puppet."
"We're all puppets," he answered calmly. "Even the puppeteers are someone else's puppet."
"I'm no one's puppet," she said.
Ryne looked over his shoulder at her. She had her arms crossed and was leaning on the door frame.
"You're the law's puppet. Just like me," he replied.
"I do what I'm supposed to so I can keep my job. I could choose to quit."
"But then you'd get another job and you'd be that person's puppet."
Imogen just shrugged. He turned back to the wall.
"When are we going to do something?" she demanded. "I'm tired of sitting around."
"In the morning."
"What do you need me for?"
"You can play a decoy to get me through security," he suggested.
"What if we get arrested?"
"They have nothing on us."
"Not until after you murder him," Imogen pointed out.
"True." Imogen sighed and he continued, "Pack your things."
"Why? Where are we going?" she frowned.
"To take care of him."
"I can't kill someone, Ryne." she said, looking a little afraid. "That's not the kind of thing my job initials."
"We don't kill him. The bullet does."
"It doesn't do it without help," she hissed.
"Aren't you pleased that it's not your job to shoot then?" Ryne asked quietly.
She looked away, grinding her teeth, "Yes."
"I'm beginning to think that you assume I like my job." He took a step back, not looking at her.
"You're well versed in your profession. You defend the cause passionately, I'd say you enjoy it."
Ryne snorted and turned to her, eyes flashing. "Well, I don't! I hate my job. But I perform it to the best of my ability, just like you!" He pointed at her.
"If you hate it so much, then quit! No one's forcing you to be a murderer," she snapped.
"Miss Murphy," his face became a mask of steel. "I don’t think you understand how this works."
"You accept a job freely and you can quit when you please, that's how the American employment system works. No one is holding you to anything."
"That's not how the CIA works," he answered, coming closer. "If I don't do what they say, if I talk about what I do, if I quit--I'm a danger to them. And the next eulogy belongs to Ryne Jefferson."
"That's not government, that's a cult," she took a step back.
He turned and strode out of the room.
Imogen vaulted after him arguing, "Then stop trying to convince me that what you're doing is right and try to fight. You aren't a brave representative of our country. You're just trying to protect your own skin by killing people to pacify those above you. Don't try to tell me that what you're doing is for the betterment of the people when you don't even believe it yourself!"
Ryne whirled around to face her, nearly tripping her.
"I am doing what's best. I'm protecting innocent people from the higher-ups like your boss. I'm protecting the little people. All you do is protect the people who can give you money for it!" He snarled. "Because that's what lawyers do. They take your money and do the best they can to defend your name. Only, sometimes they fail," he stepped toe to toe with her and looked her in the eye. "A bullet never fails."
"It never fails to bring destruction! What if you're wrong and you kill someone who's innocent? Who are you or the government to say they should live or die?"
"And who are you and the government to say that the guilty should get away?" he asked, lowering his voice.
"I didn't say that," she snapped.
"No. You didn't. Because you only see one side of the argument. All you see is the goal of getting me behind bars," he hissed.
"This is your fault, Ryne! You should have left me alone and we wouldn't be having this conversation right now," her eyes flashed and she folded her arms.
"I couldn't," he answered. His jaw worked and she saw tears hidden behind his eyes. "You needed to see what injustice does to people."
"I see it every day," she growled. "You're not the only one who doesn't like their job all of the time. I'm a court appointed lawyer. I represent criminals and try to lessen their sentences when they deserve more."
"And you do a frigging wonderful job at it, too," his words were full of venom.
"What is that supposed to mean?" she ground her teeth, cutting him with her glare.
"At least when you got me out," he hissed, "I deserved to stay clean. I only kill people who deserve to die."
"We've been over that," she balled her fists, "We disagree."
"So you're going to tell me that a murderer doesn't deserve to die when you've been shoving that bit down my throat for weeks?" he demanded. "Every. Person. On. That. Wall. Deserved. Death."
"They also deserved a fair trial!"
"And some of them got one and still walked away clean!" he yelled.
A tear dribbled out of his eye. Immediately, he jerked and turned away. He walked off a few paces and Horace came, winding himself around his feet, whining and rubbing his head on his master's leg. Imogen snapped her mouth shut and jerked a hand through her hair, swallowing.
I don't get it. He’s crying like he’s never talked about this with another human being before, but he speaks with such conviction that it must be practiced.
She slumped into a chair and groaned in frustration. Ryne stood still, clenching and unclenching his hands by his sides for a long while before he finally spoke.
"I need to show you something."
She sighed, "What is it?"
Ryne walked across the apartment to the door that always remained locked. He took his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a key before unlocking the door.
His voice was growly as he said, "Come on. Please."
She walked up carefully behind him, following Ryne into the dark room. Ryne turned on the dim light. The room was hardly touched. There was no furniture, but there was a rug on the floor. A Disney princess rug. Ryne walked over it. On the wall was another picture. A picture of a man with blonde hair, slight scruff along his jaw, and dark circles under his dark eyes.
"What's his name?" Ryne asked coldly.
Imogen stepped inside slowly, taking in the scene with a frown, she turned to Ryne, answering his question with caution. She was too tired to fight again. "I don't know."
Ryne rested a hand on the wall beside the picture.
"His name was Richard Lawrence II." He inhaled slowly. "He was brought in on a charge of kidnapping, probable rape, and murder of a six year old girl three years ago. You should remember him. You're the one who helped him get off clean and claimed the evidence was circumstantial. That man was guilty," he voice stayed low. "And he walked the streets."
She tipped her head, frowning, "I remember...but what does he have to do with anything?"
"It has everything to do with this. It's why I have to show you that you are wrong. I tried to believe in justice your way once, but it failed. And then I realized that it wasn't justice at all."
"I'm really tired of this game. Quit speaking in riddles and tell me straight," Imogen said. "Why is he different from the rest? Why do you have a separate room for him when the rest of your targets are stamped on your walls in the office?" She stepped up next to him, tone even.
"Because that little girl was my baby," the pain in his voice echoed through the empty room.
Imogen raised her head, eyes locking on his. She opened her mouth, then closed it."I'm sorry," she whispered.
"She didn't do anything. She didn't deserve to get hurt. She deserved to be running and playing with little kids in the third grade right now. That man took that away from her. Away from me." He looked over at her. "And you let him."
"I was doing my job, Ryne. I try not to think about the people involved or I couldn't do it," she said very softly, suddenly feeling small.
"And that's the problem, Imogen," he replied looking back at the picture. "I can't just think about my job. I have to think about everyone involved. All the pros and cons. The people who will be helped and the people who will be hurt. In the end, we both count the cost and pay the price." He stepped back and looked at her again. "But I'll walk away with a clean conscious. I've done what's right. But that scum is still alive somewhere. And there's nothing I can do about it. Because of your system of justice."
Imogen didn't say anything this time, she just stared at the picture of the man and swallowed.
Ryne turned and looked at the door, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
"I've said too much," he said quietly.
"Ryne, do you want to know why I became a lawyer?" she didn't wait for him to respond. "I became a lawyer because that's what my parents wanted. Every day I vow to do my job right. And we both know I do it well. I'm not as much a defendant as I am a representative. I get the facts, do what that person would do for themselves if they could, then drive for a deal. That's what my job is. I don't agree with most of the people that walk through my door and if I sat there and thought about all the people's lives I was helping to ruin, I wouldn't survive. You and I both know that in some professions you have to turn your emotions off to be effect in your field. That's what I've done and that's the only reason I'm successful, not because I enjoy hurting people. Believe me when I say, I'm sorry for what you've been dealt and for what he put you through." she paused, "I'm truly sorry that I had anything to do with it."
He huffed a soft sigh, "Two peas in a pod, you and me. Just looking through different sides of the same looking glass and seeing different reflections." Ryne looked over his shoulder at her. "Which is you need to be here."
She found his gaze again and nodded slowly, "Alright."
"I know you don't trust me," Ryne told her. "But trust me when I say, my intentions are pure. I want truth and justice. Just as much as you do."
"Honestly, I just want to fix this thing, then go home and forget," she said.
Ryne turned back to the wall, eyes on the photograph of his daughter's killer.
"We have a lot of power. A lot of influence, Miss Murphy. But there is one thing we don't have the power, nor capacity, to do." He shook his head, stepping back from the wall. He looked down at her gravely. "Forget."
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